


The Returning Soldier

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Anal Sex, Danger, First Time, M/M, Mental Health Issues, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John feared he would lose control of himself, put not only himself but other, unsuspecting men into needlessly perilous situations, in pursuit of the love that thrilled him but always left him bereft.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Returning Soldier

A/N: Berlynn Wohl’s fics have never really had anything to do with reality, and this fic is no exception. If you enjoy this sort of supreme **un** reality, why not [follow Berlynn on Tumblr](http://berlynn-wohl.tumblr.com/)?

This is a fill for a [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=62220432#t62220432). Reading the prompt will spoil you for the essential conflict of the fic, which is not otherwise made explicit until about the halfway point.

 

 

 

1.

Sherlock handed the violin over to a curious John without fear, certain that even though John had no experience with the instrument, he would handle it with delicacy.

John was surprised to see that it was a twentieth century model, a Greiner. “Would have thought you’d have a Stradivarius,” he said, trying not to get any fingerprints on it.

“A Swiss banker once offered me a Strad in exchange for my services,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

“The way you say that makes it sound like you turned him down.”

“Numerous blind tests have been conducted over the past two hundred years, and no one has conclusively proven that a Stradivarius produces a higher quality sound than comparable models from other time periods.”

“I see.” John handed the violin back, convinced he was beyond any true appreciation for the instrument.

“That’s one of the most consistent mistakes people make in this era of ignorant consumerism. Names don’t matter. Prestige and reputation mean nothing. It’s how the object _functions_. All that matters is that something _functions_ properly.”

John slumped a little. “Yes,” he said lamely. “That’s…true, yeah.”

 

 

2.

He wasn’t some sort of pervert who’d joined the army for the sexual thrill. In fact, he hadn’t realised his particular proclivity until long after his military training had ended, and it was during an ordinary civilian outing. After watching the footy at the pub, he’d gotten into a car with a friend who shouldn’t have been driving. A half-mile down the road, the two of them were nearly wiped out at a rail crossing.

John was not overly concerned about the fact that he subsequently developed the most incredible erection he’d ever had -- he’d nearly completed his medical training at that point, and was well versed in all the human body’s quirks, including how a brush with death, a funeral, or any other reminder of one’s own mortality often resulted in a strong desire to copulate, to hurry up and pass on one’s genetic material while there was still time.

So John wasn’t bothered about the erection.

What bothered him was what happened afterward: his friend dropped him off, he got in the shower to wash away the panic-sweat, and began masturbating furiously. One orgasm wasn’t enough; and when he’d used up the hot water, he retired to bed only to toss himself off a fourth time. And all the while, the only thing he could think about was how close he’d come to death. If his mate hadn’t managed to put his foot on the accelerator at the very last second, the train would have clipped the car, and who knew how they would have died. Crushed by the crumpled steel? Flung through the windscreen into the ditch? Bleeding out? Decapitated? John replayed the whine of the train’s whistle, rendered a veering moan by the Doppler effect, over and over in his head. He felt the lurch of his gut as the force of the rushing train made the car rock to and fro. And as he remembered these things, he coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of himself, each one more raw and feeble than the last, but each one more desperately necessary. Not once did a thought enter his mind of long limbs, soft bellies, or throbbing genitals.

Five years later, he was deployed to his first combat zone.

 

 

3.

A wide palm and long fingers on his solar plexus made John gasp. This was happening. Was it happening? Yes. Sometimes Sherlock’s low, sharp moans against his neck sounded like “ _Ah_ ,” and sometimes they sounded like “ _John_.”

For a few rapturous moments, John’s mind was free of all thoughts except tingling anticipation. He was about to have a sexual encounter with a man famous for his relentless pursuit of perfect success in whatever he set his mind to, and right now his mind was set on driving John to ecstasy.

John’s delight, however, was short-lived. The moment Sherlock’s hand came to rest over the zip of his trousers, John broke the deepest kiss he’d ever been involved in, and before he could even comprehend what he was doing, pushed Sherlock away.

“No,” he said, in the same reflexive way that one might cough or hiccup. “No. I can’t -- we can’t do this.” A wave of fresh humiliation washed over him. Sherlock had to know, now. He knew everything.

Sherlock retreated, baffled (despite John’s assumption). “Did I do something wrong? You gave me every indication that you wanted this.”

“I did, yeah. But I can’t. I’m sorry, I--” John fled without finishing, rolling off the sofa and darting up the stairs to his bedroom. “I’m sorry!” he called back once more from the stairwell.

If he could have seen Sherlock’s face, he would have recognised the expression that Sherlock always wore when he suddenly understood he had pursued something in error, and needed to reevaluate so that he might make a second attempt as quickly as possible.

 

 

4.

War was like…a profiterole. Ultimately, it could do nothing but bad things to you. You might regret indulging five years from now, or five minutes from now. Nonetheless, right here, right now? It was irresistible.

Before and after his discovery at the rail crossing, John had some very satisfying and utterly normal doings with both men and women, most of them of the committed, long-term variety. He didn’t _need_ the danger. But when danger became his way of life, things changed for him in ways unimaginable even by the men who lived and fought side-by-side with him.

He was thirty-two when he was first deployed, and stayed on almost continuously for seven years. He was a fossil by the standards of most of his fellow soldiers, an endless stream of nineteen-year-old poverty-draft recruits. He got all the respect he was due, but little of their band-of-brothers camaraderie. When the isolation, fear, stress, and lack of females became too much for these young men in their sexual prime, they turned to each other, not to him. And so John’s only sexual partner was danger.

Like a free-spirited lover who refused to be bound by society’s rules, danger flitted unpredictably in and out of his life, dropping in for a tryst after seemingly interminable periods of boredom. Danger might give him a night he would never forget, but he would wake the next morning to find it had deserted him once again.

For the first time, he felt guilt about his unusual desires. He feared he would lose control of himself, put not only himself but other, unsuspecting men into needlessly perilous situations, in pursuit of the love that thrilled him but always left him bereft, while in the next tent over, his comrades could still whoop and carouse and squeeze a few drops of joy out of a tense and uncertain existence.

 

 

5.

For days afterward, John could feel Sherlock’s tongue parting his lips, Sherlock’s large, warm hands slipping under his shirt. When he found himself alone in a quiet room, free of distractions, these ghosts, these memories, became unbearably vivid. But John could not think of them without subsequently imagining what would have come next, had they continued. Sherlock’s disappointment, and his own shame.

After a time, the memory and the speculation became fused in John’s mind, and it was a torment to remember those seconds of pleasure.

 

 

6.

When he awoke in a bed in his own field hospital, John was seized by the most overwhelming feeling of dread he’d ever experienced. This wasn’t what he’d fantasised about, in stolen moments in his bunk. This wasn’t the whiz of a bullet inches from his ear. This wasn’t the roll of tyres over IED-infested roads. This was months, possibly years, of pain and therapy and dependency. Oh God, dependency, the most consuming of all his fears. Any capable doctor and soldier, who had earned everything they had through determined self-reliance and patient labour, never, ever forgot that one day, the vagaries of war might some day rob them of their ability to care for themselves. Forget the stupid bloody business about almost getting killed. Stuff that; he’d lived, that scenario was stale now. The reality of the temporary loss of the ability to do his job, to even use his dominant hand and arm, was an unspeakable humiliation. Yes, it could have been much worse. Prior to his own injury, John had dealt with scores of young men and women who had lost limbs entirely, who would never walk, feed themselves, cradle their babies. But those poor souls had not danced with the devil the way John had. _They_ had not spent the war praying for close calls that could fuel hot, wicked fantasies and marathon wank sessions. The frantic scan of the hills for the origin of sniper fire had not given _them_ an exquisitely aching erection.

 _They_ didn’t deserve what they’d got.

 

 

7.

“I do wish you’d reconsider,” Sherlock whispered in between dips of his tongue into John’s ear. “We _have_ to be together, don’t you see? We can’t _trust_ anyone else now.” He clung to John, clutching John’s head in both hands, holding him close enough that he could hear Sherlock’s heartbeat as his now-wet ear dampened Sherlock’s shirt-front. “We have to be everything to each other,” Sherlock said. “It’s the only way we _can_ have everything.”

 _I want it_ , John thought. _I want everything_. But he pushed Sherlock away and coldly instructed him to busy himself elsewhere.

 

 

8.

Weeks went by, and eventually John judged his left shoulder and arm sufficiently healed and fit to wank with. He’d been shipped home at this point, and had moved from a proper hospital to more of a halfway-house for soldiers who still needed intensive physical therapy. He had a roommate, a poor sod who’d had his legs blown off by an IED. John learned the routines of his roommate’s physical therapy and the rounds of the staff, and early one evening determined that he’d have a forty-minute window in which to spend some time getting reacquainted with himself. There was a brief moment, a shadow of almost-realisation that in all the time since his injury, whilst his left arm had to remain immobile, that he hadn’t had the urge to try having a wank with his right hand. He chalked this up to the dearth of privacy and pushed the thought aside as he reached down into his pyjama bottoms.

His penis was warm and soft, and it was comforting to hold it. He’d been holding it several times a day in the loo, of course, but that was strictly business. Now he was remembering the way he felt about it, the way all men feel about their equipment; an old friend, a constant companion, a source of joy -- and sometimes of exasperation, yes, but as with all charming but irresponsible friends, one quickly forgives.

He played with it leisurely, squeezing it, rubbing it against his belly, rearranging his foreskin. It felt very nice, but ten minutes had gone and he wasn’t hard yet. He started to play with it a little more aggressively with no result, and then began to panic. He wanted it to be hard. He was in the mood, he wanted to make himself feel good and, since he’d had such a dry spell, was anticipating a mind-blowing orgasm that would relieve the tension of the last few terrible weeks. But his body, apparently, did not share his views.

With his eyes tightly shut, he remembered a particularly delightful sexual encounter he’d had in his twenties, one he frequently remembered during subsequent solo sessions. The memory retained its charm, but did nothing for him in the physical department. He tried again, this time remembering the incident at the rail crossing. That only made him cringe. No, he couldn’t think of that. Even the dark forbiddenness of it could not provoke a twitch from his soft prick. He went back to his more conventional catalogue of memories, but after a few more tries, he gave up.

His roommate returned minutes later, hobbling on his new carbon-fiber legs and a pair of crutches. John had the telly on.

 

 

9.

This was his punishment. God, or Fate, or Whatever It Was, had looked down and seen John Watson enjoying a secret, unnatural pleasure each time he risked life and limb, and had decided to punish him for his perversity. John wanted to feel his life half-gone, and he got it.

He certainly didn’t need this bloody therapist reminding him he had problems.

“Any other concerns?” she said, tapping the eraser-end of her pencil once on her notebook. “Anything else I should know about?”

“No, I don’t think so,” John replied, in a transparent tone that said _Have I not been humiliated enough?_

The therapist saw right through it. “Are you absolutely certain? John, many returning soldiers with PTSD have certain issues they don’t want to talk about, because they’re embarrassed. But you and I are both doctors. You know that if you have a concern, I’ll keep it in the strictest confidence, and I’ll do what I can to get you the help you need. If you’re suffering from ED--”

“I’m not,” John snapped. “Not, thanks. Thanks for your concern.”

 

 

10.

Night had fallen, but the bricks were still full of the long day’s summer heat. John felt the warmth against his shoulders and the back of his head, as the hulking thug pressed him against the wall.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” the thug chuckled. “This is how rumours start.”

John would have returned the awkward, ironic laugh, but he’d had the wind knocked from him.

“This is the fird time we’ve crossed pavs, mate. ‘At means I owe you free reminders not to squeal to the coppers.” From nowhere, the thug produced a knife, specifically, a hunting knife with a guthook on the back of the blade.

“Allough now ‘at I fink of it, free reminders might _guarantee_ you never squeal.”

John couldn’t help panting into the thugs scarred, snaggle-toothed face, or breathing in his rank breath with each sharp inhale. His body sang with adrenalin. The knife left his field of vision, and then he felt something sharp poking him below his sternum. Not a threat, but the steadying of a blade just before the slice up the trunk. He was about to be gutted like an animal.

A hefty chunk of brick and mortar bounced off the crown of the thug’s head and caught John in the face, bruising his cheekbone. But then the thug’s hot reeking breath was gone, and John was no longer pinioned. From the roof, Sherlock’s command: “ _Run, John!_ ”

It was a good thing the blow had felled the thug. Something had happened that made it difficult for John to run at full speed.

 

 

11.

Sherlock stood John under the lamp next to the sofa, so he could get a good look.

“It’s nothing,” John said impatiently. “He barely scratched me.”

Sherlock pulled aside the punctured fabric of John’s shirt, revealing a half-inch cut, not serious, but in need of a cleaning. “You’re bleeding.”

“So stick a plaster on it!” John writhed under Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “That’s very unlike you to say.”

“No, you know what’s unlike me? This.” And John grabbed Sherlock by his shirt, pivoted, and tossed Sherlock onto the sofa. He threw himself on top and began tearing at Sherlock’s buttons.

From here, Sherlock had a very good view of John’s bruised and swollen cheek. “Aren’t you in pain?” he said.

“Can’t feel a thing,” John breathed. “Please let me fuck you.” He was reaching down and fumbling for something now. “Please let me fuck you with this.”

With _this_? “With what?” Sherlock said. Then he felt it, as it was released from John’s trousers.

“This is the first hard-on I’ve had in fourteen months. Please, let me put it in your arse. I want it so badly.”

Sherlock turned his head, gazing at the room. “I don’t know that there’s anything in the flat that we can use for lubrication.”

John gritted his teeth. Sherlock was using too many words.

Then Sherlock suggested, “There’s cooking oil.”

“Yes, God yes, fine, please.”

They stumbled into the kitchen, where Sherlock pulled the oil from the shelf under the worktop. John grabbed the bottle out of Sherlock’s hands, slammed it on the table, swept away the pile of books and dishes, and bent Sherlock over, pressing his face against the wooden surface. He made a try for Sherlock’s zip, but his hands were shaking with the adrenalin rush. “Get these off,” he said, tugging at Sherlock’s trousers.

John’s own cock was still jutting from his open zip. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle of oil, and then cupped his left hand under his cock, while with his right he poured the oil along the shaft, catching what dripped down and rubbing it from root to tip.

He’d nearly forgotten how good it felt just to have an erection. He loved feeling that hot urge to touch it, and then when it was touched, the shivering satisfaction that quickly transmuted into an even deeper urge. Glorious.

He returned his attention to Sherlock, who had obediently taken his trousers down. His pale, exposed arse was making John’s mouth water. He gave Sherlock’s entrance a couple of quick jabs with two oily fingers before aiming his cock.

Plunging into Sherlock felt so good, John pulled out immediately so he could do it again. Soon he was riding Sherlock at a gallop, gasping, “Oh God, I missed this. I love it so much. I love to fuck. Do you like it? Sherlock, Tell me you like it.”

“I don’t…know,” Sherlock grunted. “I’ve never done this before.”

The crushing realisation that he was obliterating Sherlock’s virginity in such a crude, rough manner was deeply shameful but also unbelievably arousing. “Oh, shit. _Shit_.” John couldn’t help it; his orgasm commenced immediately.

Weak-kneed, he collapsed on the kitchen floor, resting his cheek against the back of Sherlock’s knee, until Sherlock stood up straight and turned to kneel beside him on the lino.

“You must have known,” John rasped. “You know everything. You must have known why I was behaving like that. What was wrong with me. Why did you let me do that to you?”

“You wouldn’t have _let_ me _let_ you do it any other way.”

John laid all the way down, resting his head on Sherlock’s thigh. “Doesn’t make it right, what I did. What can I do to make things right?”

“Be gentle with me next time,” Sherlock said, seemingly unconcerned about the disaster that had just taken place.

John glanced down at his limp, glistening cock. “I don’t know when the next time might be.”

“I do. I know everything, like you just said.” Sherlock slipped one hand between John’s ribcage and the floor. “Come on,” he whispered. “Up you get.”

 


End file.
